


Khazad November

by Judayre



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Khazâd November
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-08-29 07:14:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8480491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judayre/pseuds/Judayre
Summary: Prompted shorts for the Dwarves of Tolkien's writing.





	1. Gimli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon character deaths.

Gimli didn’t bother to modulate his voice as he told the story of the Ring one more time. He gave in to every urge to laugh at the antics of the Hobbits. His voice keened as he told of the fate of Khazad dum and Gandalf. He spoke with reverent wonder of the Lady Galadriel.

“You lads would have loved it,” he said with a smile. 

But the smile faded as he leaned back and looked up toward the rough hewn ceiling of the catacombs. Fíli and Kíli had been lost half a lifetime ago. Would they have loved it? Were they memories of a patient golden cousin teaching him to read, or was it just the number of times his mother repeated the story? Were they memories of Kíli’s flashing smile and flashing sword, or was it just Dwalin’s training?

He had been so young when he had lost his cousins. He had passed his majority alone. He had reached 100 and realized neither of them ever would. And now he looked at pictures of them drawn during the Quest and thought they looked much like Thorin’s children. (Young Thorin, Dwalin still called him, though their new king was hardly a child.)

They had been the best friends of his youth, and Gimli had pined for them. He was highly placed in Erebor, so he knew many people, had many acquaintances and hangers-on. But for the first time he realized that he hadn’t let himself have friends in the new kingdom. It wasn’t until his own quest - 80 years - that he was able to open his heart again to others.

He wondered what they would think of that. He wondered what they would think of the place his heart had finally fallen.

And he bowed his head and wept anew.


	2. Thráin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone lives AU going with the movie canon that Thráin was alive during Desolation of Smaug.

Fresh air was sweet, and the sky was blue. There were sounds that filled the air that weren’t the screams of prisoners or the rough laughter of captors. After all of this time (how long had it been?) he couldn’t help but look and listen in wonder.

He couldn’t help feeling like there was something he should be doing, but it was always like that (was it really? What was always, anyway?). He wasn’t locked away. He wasn’t being tortured. There couldn’t be anything as important as just experiencing what it was like to have no new pain.

He wandered purposelessly, limping around trees and boulders. Sometimes he tripped over something he hadn’t seen - he only had one eye that worked, and it didn’t work well after all that time in the dungeon (how long had it been?). But that didn’t matter. Falling on his face or twisting an ankle, that didn’t hurt (shouldn’t it?).

He ate what he could find - berries and nuts (he didn’t like the ones that made him throw up), flowers, grass and leaves, dead things. And he kept moving, just in case. But that was no hardship - the colors of the world, even when it died and became all white (it was cold, but he hardly felt it), were more than he thought he would ever get tired of. And he had nothing to do except walk and eat, so it was no hardship at all.

The white cold left and colors blossomed into existence again. He followed them, followed animals that were waking up, followed the direction of the wind or a stream, followed one foot in front of the other when nothing else was more compelling. The colors were starting to change to fire again when he saw the first signs of others.

There were fields of cultivated food, and he did well stealing from them to feed himself. There were vegetables and roots that were good to eat, and there were animals. Some of them gave milk, and the bright sweetness of it on his tongue left him insensate with the glory of it.

Time had passed when he became aware again (how much time?) and he was no longer alone. Men surrounded him, talking harshly, demanding things in the tones of the Orcs who had held him for so long, and he shivered from fear.

The Men fell back as Dwarves arrived, moving confidently between them to approach. Their leader was a dark blur, blue eyes the only things that seemed clear. As he approached he paled to ash and his eyes widened.

“Father,” he said, voice a familiar rasp despite time (how long had it been?) deepening it and making it sad. He stepped closer. "Father,“ he repeated.

Thráin met his son’s eyes and wept for all he had missed.


	3. Durin

In his dreams he is offered gems. He accepts them with thanks and labors over his forge, creating gifts for his fathers - the one who created him and the one who accepted unlooked-for children. He delights himself with the gifts his first father gave him, imagining the delight that both fathers will feel when he presents his gifts. The gems wink and shine, promising glory and wealth. He shines back, creating wealth beyond comparison with the work of his hands.

In his dreams he is shown rich lands, full of people he can control. He teaches them the ways of the earth, as his first father taught him. He shows them plants and animals, and all the riches of the earth. His forge rings as he shapes plain metal to plow and reap, to feed and heal his people. They revere him and he laughs, because he is just a child as they are. He tells them of their fathers and together they make offerings to keep the land rich and its people well.

In his dreams, he is presented with beautiful companions who want nothing but to give him pleasure. And oh, is he pleased with them. They lie together for time he cannot count, and he learns things that a father cannot teach. He rewards their dedication to his pleasure by dedicating himself to theirs. He listens to their desires and learns to give as well as to receive so they can reach those moments of ecstatic emptiness together.

In his dreams he is old and the world has left him with nothing but pain and his forge. He toiled at things that were neither beautiful nor useful and his skills were taken for granted by those around him. One day he was approached by a giant in dark armor who wanted him to make tools for killing. He refused, preferring a life of pain and drudgery to becoming party to murder.

In his dreams, his father is angry. "My own child turned from me and tries to turn the world to his own. How is it that you, so much less than he is, are able to turn from every temptation?“ And he understands that his father feels fear and regret just as he does. His loves grows with his understanding, grows until he shines with it and lays his father’s fear to rest.


	4. Thorin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want him to be happy. T_T

There had to be someone else who was capable, no matter what Dís said. Thorin had things to do. They were barely settled in the Blue Mountains. There were still ongoing negotiations with the Men and Dwarves who lived there. There were homes to set up, work to find, food to store. All things he needed to be seeing to as the leader of their people in his father's absense. He didn't have time to _babysit_.

He looked down at Fíli, so small and soft in his calloused hands. (It was nothing like what he remembered of being allowed to tote Frerin or Dís around when he was small.) He growled his annoyance and the baby just cooed back at him.

In the early refugee camps, Thorin had often gotten put in charge of the children. Thráin had quickly discovered that he had the knack for keeping them encouraged and getting them to do their part. Thorin had loved it, and secretly mourned growing into more adult roles. But the fact remained that he wasn't that child anymore.

Fíli grabbed his thumb and blinked wide blue eyes at him.

Thorin looked around suspiciously to make sure they were really alone and then stuck his tongue out to make the baby laugh.


	5. Óin

Óin was a sourpuss and a stick in the mud, too concerned with his craft to think about other people. As far as his cousins and brother were concerned, he barely knew who they were, more interested in plants than he'd ever be in them. They introduced themselves every time they spoke with him for years.

He forgave them for it. They were far younger than he was - all but Balin - and he had always been a private person, even as a child.

Míz had also been a student of medicine, and that was how they had gotten to know each other. Óin didn't speak of his studies with his parents. When he had been young, he had somehow gotten the impression that others would think he was getting their help and not working on his own merits. They were respectful enough to give him his privacy.

But he found that he wanted to speak of medicine and herbs with someone, and Míz filled that space for him. They compared notes, argued about dosages and methods of providing. They studied together, experimented together, interned together. There came a time when Óin found he didn't know what to do with himself without Míz by his side.

When he found that feeling was mutual, his chest felt as tight with emotion as it had before his first surgery. Míz laughed at the comparison, but Óin had always been intense and directed in his emotions.

They started to quietly move their lives together, stealing brief moments to share a word or a swift touch. They found a home they could live in together - small, but more than enough room for two private people - and had made a payment toward it. Óin was home to pack up his things. He hadn't told his parents, and they deserved to know where and why he was leaving their home, so he waited for them.

And then the dragon came. He never saw Míz again.


	6. Bifur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Line of Durin verse

The bowl gently steamed in front of him, and Bifur inhaled the scent appreciatively. He had done his best for years, but living on the edge of poverty - living with his two cousins to care for, and then Kíli as well - he had to make compromises. He foraged what he could, but sometimes the majority of what they ate was brought down with Kíli's bow.

But in Erebor.... The first winter they all scrounged as well as they could. But once trade started in the spring, Erebor was a land of plenty. And Bifur was a figure of note, a hero in his own right and the foster father of one of the beloved princes.

He dipped his spoon into the bowl, scooping up barley and vegetables and a creamy broth. He put it in his mouth and savored it. He could taste that nothing had died to give him this meal. And he had tasted enough death over the years to be sick of it.


	7. Dís

Compared to Dwarves, Men had short lives. Many Dwarves didn't realize this at all, and even most of those who understood had learned it as adults. Dís, refugee princess of Erebor, knew many things that children often did not.

As they travelled, they relied on cities and villages of Men for their livelihood. A child who was a playmate one year might be married the next time they passed through. A youth who wanted to learn their methods would be considered an expert when they met him again. A midwife who helped keep Dwarf women alive died before they saw her again.

The worst was watching the leaders of Men. Dwarves and Elves they could easily gain the measure of - one they were known, they were known. But Men were so spread out! They seemed to be everywhere, and each town had at least one leader - some might have a mayor and a land owner who had the same amount of power; and if there was also a religious leader or a sheriff.... Every one needed to be appeased, often in different ways and with differing amounts of success. And they were different in each home of Men and often different each time they passed through.

Dís had diplomatic skills that were he envy of Dwarves twice her age. She was able to smile kindly and say all of the right things while calculating what they could get away with. She became her brother's right hand when they settled in the Blue Mountains, all the more because Dwarves underestimated her.

But even though their aging mad her angry and sad by turns, she still played with every baby who could get a hand on her beard.


	8. Nori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to post this on Friday.

Nori was a baby in Erebor and he had imaginary friends like many children did. They would tell him stories and warn him of danger. They couldn’t give him hugs and kisses or help him when he tried walking, but he liked them anyway.

He stopped talking about them after the dragon came. His family assumed that he had outgrown them. He did as well, as he wandered the length and breadth of the continent. They stayed in temporary shacks or tents at the edge of towns of Men. He grew windblown and sunburnt and hardly remembered the imaginary friends of his youth as he started to slip his hand into the pockets of those who didn’t notice.

He didn’t notice at first. They reached the Blue Mountains and were allowed to open up the ruins of an old Dwarf town for use. It was in poor condition, the mines all but tapped out. Nori’s family claimed a broken home and worked together to make it whole again. Nori stole some of the things they needed, because the nearby Men charged far more than was fair for them. Occasionally, someone would be lookout for him without asking a share of the profit. And once or twice he thought he saw someone make a turn in the market before the road turned.

It was only when someone walked right through his lookout that he realized he was seeing things that weren’t there. He had a lot of time to think as he hid on the ceiling beams, and he remembered his childhood imaginary friends. It seemed strange that they would come back now that he was grown.

Suddenly there was a figure on the beam with him. It was the first time he had seen one so close and been paying attention, and he saw the bruises of strangler’s fingers on the other Dwarf’s throat. The Dwarf smiled at him and began to whisper stories of ancient kingdoms.


	9. Kíli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With guest appearance by Fuzzy the Warg.

Kíli bit his lip and kicked his feet as he carefully drew the letters at the bottom of his picture. He put his pen down and looked at it closely, noting the smudges and how shaky his lines seemed. "Do you think he'll like it?" he asked aloud anxiously.

There was a snort from the other side of the room and Kíli turned, mouth set in anger. "I _know_ he's my uncle! That doesn't mean that he'll _like_ it, just that he'll _say_ he does!"

Fuzzy opened his eyes and rose, stretching and yawning while Kíli continued to glare. It was only when he padded across the room that the boy's lip started to shake in worry as the Warg cocked his head and took a long look at the drawing. After a moment he snorted again and Kíli's smile blazed forth.

"You really think so?"

Fuzzy settled himself at the boy's side and licked his face. Kíli giggled and snuggled into the Warg's side contentedly.


	10. Dwalin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU in which Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli die. How do I come up with these things?

Some of the Men and Elves had instruments with them, but it seemed wrong to use them in the praise of Dwarf heroism. Dwalin scoured the mountain on his own, missing the funerals, to find something right.

It meant he missed his final look at them - they were stone when he found a viol with a bow that had made it through the century and more of dragon. It didn't really matter. Stone was as responsive as dead flesh, after all.

He settled himself against Thorin's bier and leaned his head back against it. His eyes were on fire with unshed tears, but they just wouldn't fall. To fall would mean they were really gone, and some part of him felt that if he could just hold the tears back that it would keep them with him. That they would wake, if only he kept strong and didn't mourn.

He set bow to string. The tears that wouldn't fall came out in his music, and he bade them farewell.


	11. Dáin

The wealthier but less noble were often in a tight spot, Dáin found over the years. The Iron Hills were a good home for Dwarves. They had built a good life there, a life of plenty and lived on their own terms. It was not a life of gold and grand things, but industry was what Dwarves were made for, and there was plenty for all in the Iron Hills. He grew up with tales of Khazad-dûm before Durin's Bane and Erebor before the dragon, but he looked around the halls and forges of the Iron Hills and it was always enough for him.

But it was never enough for his cousins. He understood that nothing could replace their home - they could never replace their memories and childhoods. And he did his best - always! - to ease the poverty they found on the road. But Erebor's folk were Durin's direct line. So when Thrór called to take back Khazad-dûm, many answered, fire in their hearts. And in fire they finished their journey, because few returned home again.

When Thorin settled in the Blue Mountains, Dáin thought that was the end of it, and he was glad. He traded with them all he could, providing money and iron enough for them to build their homes and create a new place for themselves. And he was content in his small halls, raising boars and smelting iron and steel.

And then Thorin came, as his grandfather had, expecting Dáin to provide men and money to take back a home of legend. As if he hadn't lost his father and enough of his people to the first failed attempt. As if Thrór and Fundin and so many beyond counting of Erebor's own still lived. As if it was his duty.

Dáin said no. He wasn't sure if Thorin would ever forgive him.


	12. Bofur

Bofur was more laughter than sense. It was a well earned reputation that he held for years. Everyone knew if you stood him a pint he'd sing or play his flute or pass on all the bawdy rumors. He was easy to talk to, easy to be friends with, easy to tumble.

His family despaired of him. Bombur begged him to settle down, Bifur shook his head. But they couldn't be mad at him and never thought of cutting him off. He was their Bofur, and even if he lacked sense they loved him.

It was only natural that the promise of free drink would have him having off on a crazy suicide quest. His brother and cousin grumbled, but they followed to keep him safe. They hoped that when it was over he would finally calm down.

That didn't happen, though he was serious enough about ensuring the mines were safe. Still, every evening saw him singing and drink, head thrown back in laughter at what the returning Dwarves told him.

When some of his new drinking buddies were escorted out of Erebor in chains, it made Bombur shake his head. Trust Bofur to make friends with the worst sort without realizing it! It was only lucky that Nori's spy network was as good as it was.

And if Bofur decided not to tell his brother who the spymaster really was, well, that was his own choice.


	13. Balin

Balin's back was stiff from bending over to write, but paper was expensive and precious, so he wrote as small as he could. He leaned back, pressing a hand to the small of his back and closed his eyes. They weren't as young as they used to be, and the amount of small writing he had to do made him see stars sometimes.

Thorin had asked him to write a contract for someone not a Dwarf. Balin knew very little about what the grey wizard had said to his King and cousin, but it had started him on a road they had all thought closed many years ago. Balin didn't have to know his brother to know he would be on this quest, and he thought he knew others well enough to know who might come.

But an outsider. Taken on the word of a wizard or not, an outsider could be trouble. He wouldn't know how Dwarves did things, and might have to be brought in on secrets. He might become heir to much Dwarf wealth. Or he could die along the road - as could they all.

Balin thought he had thought of every eventuality. He opened his eyes to look at the contract and bent his mind away from the dire possibilities he had been forced to consider. There was still a chance that Thorin would listen to reason and call it off.


	14. Thrór

The queen of Erebor died bringing forth a son, and Thrór died with her. He could feel his heart break inside of him, and he wanted to lay down and never rise again. His kingdom would continue without him, after all. He didn't do anything that couldn't be done just as well by someone else.

But Thráin needed him. Thráin, the last part of his mother to exist on the earth. And Thrór turned everything in him - every broken shard of his heart - to raising his son, even if he couldn't quite show the love that he knew he should.

Thráin grew and learned, and Thrór was satisfied with his son's progress. He was able to pass some of the responsibility on and turn to remembering his beloved. Her eyes had shone bright, like diamonds nestled in coal. Her hair had been veins of silver and gold. She had wielded sledgehammers for brute force and tiny delicate tweezers. Her soul had been a jewel beyond price.

When the Arkenstone was presented to him, his mind fired with the mad thought that it was her - it was his queen coming back to him. And his thoughts turned to the diamonds and silver and gold that could complete her return.

The diamonds and gold that were his - _his_ \- and no one else would have any piece of it.


	15. Fíli

Fíli was proud to be the nephew and heir of Thorin Oakenshield. But there were times that it was nice to just be part of the crowd. It had been decided early that the boys would have lives of their own as much as they could. He braided his hair differently, called himself Filís after his mother, and truly knew his place in the guard.

When he was Filís, he didn't have to wonder if his sparring partners were going easy on him. When he was Filís, he didn't have to wonder if his trainers were giving him unearned praise. When he was Filís, he didn't have to wonder if the cut-purses in the market were going to specially target him.

As a common guard, he could laugh and shout and make crude jokes. He could whistle appreciation of a fine beard or a strong arm with no one thinking it more serious than it was. He could ogle the young man behind the counter of the drinks shop the guard liked during duty and know that the return glances were because of him and not his station.


	16. Frerin

It was hard to be Thorin’s younger brother. Certainly, Frerin loved him. That was part of the problem – everyone loved Thorin. He was serious, responsible. He studied hard in his classes, his weapon training, and the special classes his had to learn how to be a king one day. He listened to everyone and was kind and gentle. He was so perfect that it hurt.

And Frerin was just the extra son. He wasn’t as interested in books or weapons, and he didn’t need to know all of the diplomacy. He was a pretty good artist, but that didn’t mean much. And he didn’t have his brother’s patience. He heard mutters from his parents and the servants whenever he was doing something he probably shouldn’t be doing – which Thorin never did.

But Frerin couldn’t be angry at Thorin. His brother played with him and read to him. He wanted to see Frerin’s drawings, and praised them fairly. Frerin’s childish drawings were hung around Thorin’s room in prominent places that masterpieces were usually. And he knew that there was a small picture that Thorin had in a locket that he carried around with him.

Thorin was Frerin’s favorite person, but he wished he could be less perfect.


	17. Ori

Ori was the only child approaching the building alone. Dori had been up half the night cleaning and mending, but he had to work at the shop and couldn't bring his young nephew to his first day of school.

Ori was wearing new clothes - Dori had saved for months to get the school fees and was still wearing his old, threadbare clothes so that Ori could have something new. He had ribbons wound into his braids, and a few old Erebor beads in his hair, gleaming from the shining Dori had given them.

He clutched his writing box - another old Erebor thing. Dori had fretted and wanted to buy him something new, but they wouldn't have been able to afford anything half as good. And Ori liked the old one. He liked feeling that connection to something far larger. Dori had used this writing box as long as Ori had been alive, and it had been his mother's before that. Ori had learned his letters holding the pen in this box, exchanging bright nibs of different sizes.

And now he would go to school and learn more. And oh, he was looking forward to it. But he was the only child alone. And even in new clothes, the social and economic difference between him and his new classmates was obvious. He wished Dori would have started work later. He never minded stares when Dori held his hand and walked with him. But all he could do was hug his writing box close and try to avoid notice.


End file.
